Darkness by John Saul

dressed and joined his family at the supper table, he found himself unable to rid himself of the dark image he’d glimpsed in the mirror, and when he finally went to bed that night, he stayed awake a long time, the reading light on, a book propped in his lap.
    But the book remained unread, for no matter how hard he tried, the memory of what he’d seen in the mirror refused to ease its grip on him. Twice he went back to the bathroom, closed the door, and stood in front of the mirror, not only searching the glass for any remnant of the vision, but studying his own reflection as well, trying to see the old man’s face in his own features, trying to envision himself as a wizened relic of what he was now.
    But all he could see were his own familiar features, his clear blue eyes and strong jaw, the hints of dimples in his cheeks, which deepened when he smiled, and his unruly blond hair, rumpled from the pillow.
    What he’d seen that night—and the other times, too—had to be nothing more than tricks of his own mind.
    At last, back in his bed once again, he put the book aside, switched off the light, and pulled the sheet over his body.
    Outside, the moon still shone brightly, and the insects and frogs filled the night with their music.
    It was a music that Michael had always before found soothing, but tonight he tossed restlessly, resisting sleep.
    When sleep finally came, the face dominated hisdreams, looming up at him out of the darkness, leering at him, reaching for him with gnarled clawlike hands.
    Three times during the night he awakened, his body sweating, his muscles tense, still caught in the nightmare.
    The fourth time he awakened, it was dawn, and the morning light finally seemed to drive the night specter away.

    Clarey Lambert hadn’t slept at all that night. Clarey was past ninety, she was sure of that, but how much past she no longer bothered to reckon. After all, it didn’t matter. All that really mattered was that she was still alive.
    Still alive, and still looking after things.
    Clarey lived alone, five miles from Villejeune. Five miles as the crow flew, anyway. A lot farther when you went by boat. You had to wind through the bayous, watching all the landmarks, or you’d never find the place. And, in fact, very few people ever did find Clarey’s house. Often weeks would go by without Clarey seeing anyone, but always, just when she was running low on food, someone would show up and her stores of flour and rice, or whatever else she needed, would be replenished. For vegetables, she’d long ago cleared out a little patch on the island behind her house, where she raised okra and beans, and some sweet potatoes. Not enough to sell for money, but enough for herself, with a little left over to trade with the other swamp rats for whatever else she needed.
    As the gray light of dawn began to brighten, Clarey stirred in the chair on her porch and stretched her bones. There were a few aches, but not too bad, all things considered. She heaved herself out of her chair, went into the shack she’d lived in most of her life—the shack in which she’d borne her children, and raised the only one who’d survived—and poked at the dying coalsin the stove she used for cooking. She added a chunk of cypress to the fire, then put on a kettle of water.
    Coffee—thick and black, well-laced with chicory—would drive the arthritis out of her bones.
    She was still standing at the stove when she sensed someone approaching and she moved stiffly back out onto her porch, her still-sharp eyes scanning the bayous.
    Sure enough, less than a minute later a rowboat emerged from the reeds and slid across the water. There were two boys in the boat, both of them in their late teens, both wearing dirty overalls held up by a single strap. Quint Millard feathered the oars, and the boat turned, drifting to a stop a few feet from Clarey’s sagging porch. From the bench in the stern, Jonas Cox gazed up at Clarey through eyes that barely seemed